


The only heaven I’ll be sent to is when I’m alone with you

by misskraken



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Happy Ending, M/M, M’Baku is Hades, M’Baku’s POV, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, T’Challa is Persephone, Undercover Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-05-25 21:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14985506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskraken/pseuds/misskraken
Summary: M’Baku has seen him only once before.“T’Challa? Demeter’s son?” Death says incredulously. “What business could he possibly have here?”





	1. Ichor

“With all due respect, my lord,” Death says, his pale, mist-like form rippling around the edges in a way that is almost agitated. “You really needn’t have come. If there really is something out of the ordinary about this man, I assure you I am more than capable of handling it.”

“I never said you weren’t,” M’Baku says almost absently as he gazes at the approaching figures in the distance. It is a warm day, and the heat rises up from the sandy roads in waves that do not quite conceal the appearances of the travelers. A little boy leads a donkey along by a rope, and a man is hunched over on the creature’s back. The roaring of the nearby river is not enough to conceal the sound of his coughing, a wet, grating noise that makes Death start forward.

“Not yet,” M’Baku says. 

“But Lord M’Baku-” Death starts to protests, and then he stops.

M’Baku feels the change in the air as well, an instantly recognizable shift that can only herald one thing: the approach of another god.

The air near the river shimmers and folds in on itself, and then a man steps out of nothing. He is dressed simply in a white tunic and leather sandals that would not seem out of place on a common mortal, but his skin and eyes glow with a vitality that rivals the sunlight around them.

M’Baku has seen him only once before.

“T’Challa? Demeter’s son?” Death says incredulously. “What business could he possibly have here?”

If T’Challa sees M’Baku and Death, he does not acknowledge them. His eyes are trained on the travelers. M’Baku can see them clearly now. The boy’s eyes are swollen from crying, and the man has blood crusted in the corner of his mouth. The force from his latest bout of coughing nearly folds him in half, and he almost slides off the back of the donkey.

“Papa!” The boy cries, rushing to his father’s side. He eases him to the ground and helps him limp over to the shade of a massive oak tree, where he lays him down amongst the moss.

“Water,” the man croaks. 

The boy nods and runs over to the bank of the river, searching for a place where he can safely fill the empty gourd tied to his belt. 

As the boy leans over the water, T’Challa removes a dagger from the folds of his tunic. He closes his eyes, as if steeling himself, and then he drags the point of it across the palm of his left hand. Golden ichor drips from the wound onto the grass a few paces behind the boy, where it sizzles like water poured onto hot coals.

The boy gasps and turns around, startled by the sudden noise, and then his mouth falls open.

There is a flower blooming where the ichor fell. Its yellow petals unfurl in a matter of seconds, and the boy drops his gourd in shock.

For a moment, the boy just stares at the flower. T’Challa does not reveal himself to the boy, but he speaks through the wind whispering through the trees:

It is a gift, child. Use it.

The boy picks up his gourd and fills it with water. Then he plucks the petals off the flower and dashes back to his father. He raises the gourd to his fathers lips so he can drink, and then he begins to feed him the petals one by one.

Death roils in anger, turning the dark gray of storm clouds, and then he surges toward the man with a guttural snarl.

M’Baku bangs his knobkerrie against the earth, and Death can move no farther. He thrashes in place, like a fly caught in a spiders web. 

“This is madness!” he shrieks. “That man is appointed to die today! That pathetic flower god has no business interfering in the natural order.”

“If you are truly angry about gods interfering in mortal lives,” M’Baku says calmly, “then I will send you to Zeus, so that you may scold him about his habit of chasing any mortal with a heartbeat. I’m certain he would value your input.”

Death seethes but does not respond.

The boy feeds his father the last petal. For a moment, the man is completely still, his eyes closed as if in a deep sleep. And then he opens them. The glassy, unfocused look in his eyes is gone; they seem to glow with health. The man sits up, looks at his son, and smiles.

“Hello, N’Jadaka,” he says in a rich, clear voice.

The boy throws his arms around his fathers neck and cries tears of joy. The man’s shoulders shake as he holds his son, and M’Baku realizes that it is because he is crying too. After a moment, the man wipes his tears and places a hand on N’Jadaka’s cheek.

“But how?” he asks.

“It was a gift from the gods, papa,” the boy says excitedly. “A flower grew by the river, and I-“ 

His voice falters as he looks over at the river bank and sees no sign of the flower.

“It was right there,” the boy says, confused. “I only picked the petals.”

T’Challa just smiles.

The man laughs and stands up, scooping his son up in his arms.

“Then we’d best continue on to the city and make a sacrifice at the temple,” he says. “And we will still purchase some droughts from the apothecary. Best not to test the gods’ generosity again.”

“Yes, papa,” the boy says as his father places him on the donkey’s back.

The man grins, and together they continue down the road. M’Baku watches until they are only dots on the horizon. He turns to Death.

“Who am I?” M’Baku asks him.

“You are M’Baku,” Death hisses, “god of the underworld, lord of the dead.”

“And who do you serve?” 

“I serve you and you alone, my lord.”

“And do you not trust my judgement?”

“I do.”

“Then do not concern yourself with whose life slips between your fingers for the time being,” M’Baku says firmly. “Whether tomorrow or fifty years from now, you will see that man again. But not today.”

“This is not something to be ignored, my lord,” Death blurts out.” “Demeter’s son-“

“Yes, yes, I will deal with him,” M’Baku says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now go. I release you.”

Death glares at him once more, and then he dissipates as quickly as morning fog, leaving M’Baku alone with T’Challa.

The ensuing silence almost makes him wish for Death’s incessant nagging. T’Challa does not appear frightened by M’Baku. He merely looks at him with his head tilted slightly to the side, both calm and curious. 

For a moment, neither of them speak. Then M’Baku inclines his head toward the horizon.

“Friends of yours?” M’Baku says.

“In a sense,” T’Challa says as he takes a few steps towards M’Baku. He moves with a panther’s grace, lithe and strong, and M’Baku resists the urge to move back before scolding himself inwardly. What reason does he have to be frightened?

“Followers, then?”

“Not exactly,” T’challa says. He is only a few paces away from M’Baku now. He smells good, M’Baku thinks to himself, feeling somewhat foolish. Like the woods after a soaking rain.

“The boy’s mother was a priestess of my mother’s,” T’Challa says. “I saw them often in her temple.”

“Was?” M’Baku asks.

T’Challa nods solemnly.

M’Baku closes his eyes, and series of images flash behind his eyelids. He sees a beautiful woman with eyes like N’Jadaka’s. Sees her heart, just imperfect enough that it stops beating before she has seen thirty years. Sees the man before her funeral pyre holding the boy in his arms, so young, but already acquainted with sorrow. He sees her in Elysium, surrounded by the noble women who have come before her, practicing singing their stories so that they will sound perfect when her beloved and their son finally join her.

M’Baku swallows against the sudden tightness of his throat. Sometimes he wishes he could make himself numb to these mortals, their bright stories, their piercing sadness.

When he opens his eyes, T’Challa is close enough so that M’Baku can count the lashes that curl against his cheekbones.

“Did she-“

“She achieved paradise, yes,” M’Baku says, hoping that T’Challa attributes the thickness of his voice to mere gruffness. “She was a good woman.”

“Her son is much like her,” T’Challa says. “Loyal, headstrong. But there is a fire in him that I have not seen in some time. It could make him a great man, or it could turn him into something terrible. To be the former, he will need the love and guidance of his father.”

“You trouble yourself over the fate of a mortal child that may or may not come to pass?” M’Baku says. Try as he might, he cannot keep the sadness out of his voice.

T’Challa nods. “That,” he says, “and I do not wish to leave a child alone in the world before he has seen his seventh year.”

He looks up at M’Baku, and his face is resolute.

“I take full responsibility for any trouble I may have caused you.”

As he looks down at T’Challa, M’Baku sees the faint glimmering of a kindred spirit, and he feels a stirring within his own chest that he has no name for.

“I won’t punish you for making my job easier,” M’Baku says finally. “But I will ask that you do not speak of this to anyone. I fear it might tamper with my image.”

T’Challa raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Lord M’Baku, king of darkness, devourer of souls?”

“I am actually a vegetarian,” M’Baku deadpans.

T’Challa laughs.

“And don’t let Hera catch you doing this with one of Zeus’s bastards,” M’Baku says, gesturing vaguely at the sky. “She’ll make a drum out of my hide and a belt out of what’s left of yours.”

“Olympus forbid,” T’Challa says, his mouth spreading into a grin. He smiles like a mortal, all wide and guileless, entirely too merry for a god. M’Baku tries to ignore the way his heart skips a beat at the site of it.

“Very well,” M’Baku says gruffly, upon realizing that he has been staring. “Remember what I said, son of Demeter. Not every god is as indulgent as I am.”

“And none of them are as good-looking, I’m sure,” T’Challa says, his eyes dancing.

M’Baku immediately strikes the head of his knobkerrie against the ground, and shadows spread mercifully around him as he is whisked away to the underworld, his face flaming all the way.

The last thing M’Baku hears is T’Challa’s musical laughter, ringing in his ears like temple bells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only T’Challa, M’Baku, and N’Jadaka will keep their BP names. The rest of the characters will be “undercover.” In this chapter, Death is Everett Ross, and Demeter is Ramonda. I will post character indexes for each chapter.


	2. Nectar

A war has just ended in the human world. Death has had ample time to slake his thirst, and the losing nation is choked with wayward spirits, ghosts of soldiers and civilians and helpless children, crying out for their loved ones, confused as to why no one can see them. M’Baku wanders through the land looking for them, touching the end of his knobkerrie to their foreheads and sending them to Charon’s barge. He attempts to speak to each of them, to reassure them that he is not there to harm them, but most are too distraught to understand. It grieves M’Baku to think of how they see him, the gruesome god of death, come to take them away from all they have ever known or loved.

For almost a week he does this, and by the time he has finished combing through the last town, a tiny farming village nestled amongst the foothills, his bones feel as if they have turned to stone. Since the dawn of time he has collected souls, and yet each time feels fresh with its pain.

M’Baku trudges along a well-worn path next to an empty field. He decides that he will check the nearby woods to make sure he has not missed any souls when he sees a tiny dot of light out of the corner of his eyes. 

M’Baku turns towards the field and narrows his eyes. Whatever the light is, it walks up and down the empty rows of the field at a steady pace. M’Baku wonders if it could be the soul of a farmer, but then the wind carries the scent of rain and pine boughs to his nose.

T’Challa.

M’Baku has not seen T’Challa since the since the incident with N’Jadaka, but M’Baku has thought of him nearly every day since. His too-human smile, the warm light of his eyes, the softness with which he spoke of the mortal family... something about him clings to M’Baku’s mind in a way he is not accustomed to. To meet a god fascinated by mortals is not all that unusual. To meet a god that genuinely cares for them, however, is far more rare.

M’Baku watches T’Challa as he winds his way through the empty rows, gradually growing closer. The ground shimmers briefly whenever T’Challa’s feet make contact with it, and M’Baku sees that T’Challa’s lips are moving, his eyes shut in concentration. 

After a moment of hesitation, he walks over to the edge of the field. He does not know how he will explain his presence, but after speaking to nothing but the souls of the dead for days, he relishes the thought of speaking to something with a beating heart.

M’Baku does not interrupt T’Challa. Instead he merely watches as T’Challa finishes the last row. The golden aura that shone so brightly from his skin is dim now, almost flickering, and his steps are uncertain, like a fawn just learning to walk.

For a moment, the two of them regard each other silently. Then, M’Baku takes the iron flask of nectar from his belt and slowly, ever so slowly, holds it out to T’Challa.

“For your strength,” M’Baku says, more quietly than he means to.

Gods do not wear themselves down the way mortals do, from exerting themselves physically or staying awake for extended periods of time. They tire from using their inhuman abilities without replenishing them via nourishment or rest. No god is a bottomless well of power, not even Zeus himself. When T’Challa looks up at M’Baku, M’Baku knows that this is not the first field he has blessed that day. Far from it.

T’Challa reaches out and takes the flask, nodding his thanks. He takes a long pull from it and sighs as his light regains it’s former strength. When he hands it back, M’Baku suddenly becomes conscious of the weariness settling across his own bones and drinks as well, trying not to think about the old wives tale he once heard from Hermes many moons ago: that those who drink from the same vessel will have their fates intertwined.

“How many?” M’Baku asks.

“I lost count,” T’Challa says. There is a heavy sadness in his voice that tears at M’Baku’s heart. “I cannot replace the lives lost, but I can give them a bountiful harvest. If the people of this land are to recover, they will need all the help they can get. I saw-“

T’Challa suddenly stops himself, as if he is on the cusp of saying to much.

“What?” M’Baku asks. “What did you see?”

T’Challa shifts his weight and sighs. 

“I saw you with their spirits,” T’Challa says almost shyly. “You were so gentle with them, even those who could not or would not understand.”

A hot prickly wave washes over M’Baku’s neck and shoulders. 

“Were you following me, son of Demeter?” M’Baku says, hoping that his harsh tone conceals his embarrassment.

T’Challa’s bashful demeanor vanishes, and he draws himself up to his full height. 

“No,” he says firmly. “Death and new life are not so opposed to each other as mortals think. You give the farmer’s soul safe passage to your realm, and I see to it that his wife and children will not want for food because of his death. You tend to the soul of the soldier, and I ensure that the scorched land on which he spilled his blood will grow fertile once more. Life unto death, and death unto life. Our paths are not so different, Lord M’Baku, and they intersect even when you do not notice.”

M’Baku opens his mouth, then closes it. Were this anyone other than T’Challa, he would laugh.

But he is tired of carrying this burden alone.

“They see me as a monster, you know,” M’Baku says. He truly hates how petulant he sounds now, but the words are tumbling out of him now, a river that cannot be stopped until it has run its course.

T’Challa listens, his eyes alive with something that forces M’Baku to continue.

“The mortals only sacrifice to me when they wish to do each other harm,” M’Baku continues. “Generals go to Athena when they want a swift victory, but when they want to break a nation, to bring it to its knees so that it will never rise again, they come to me.”

“And do you grant them their requests, Lord M’Baku?” T’Challa asks, his voice neutral.

M’Baku laughs mirthlessly. “No,” he says. “Mortals do not need my help to hurt each other.”

“And yet you care for them.” A statement, not a question.

M’Baku twists his knobkerrie in his hands. Party of him wishes to return to the underworld, to flee this god and his probing questions. But another, stronger part of him wishes to stay.

M’Baku does not even attempt to lie to T’Challa.

“I do,” M’Baku says softly, and it feels as if a great weight has been lifted from his chest. “They make it difficult not to.”

T’Challa smiles sadly, and M’Baku feels seen and understood by another god for what feels like the very first time.

Perhaps, he realizes, this is the first time.

T’Challa reaches out and gently places his hand on M’Baku’s forearm.

“Come,” he says, and he walks into the woods.

M’Baku follows him until they come to a small clearing. The grass here grows as thick and soft as fur, and T’Challa sinks into sitting position with a heavy sigh. He lies down and motions for M’Baku to do the same.

After a moment, M’Baku lies down on his side and pillows his head on his arm. T’Challa stretches his arm out towards M’Baku as if to touch him, and M’Baku freezes, unsure of how to respond. But T’Challa only sweeps his arm in a circular motion around them, his hand glowing softly. The grass around them shivers, and then it begins to grow, rapidly stretching and thickening into gnarled vines that twist together above their heads, forming a makeshift kind of covering with a small opening at the top.

“Best not to give the dryads anything to gossip about,” T’Challa says sheepishly.

M’Baku could point out that erecting a hut in the middle of a clearing would almost certainly cause gossip, but he doesn’t. He can see the stars through the open roof, and he stares at them, afraid of what he will find if he looks into T’Challa’s eyes.

“I would see you again, M’Baku, if that is your wish as well,” T’Challa says after a moment of silence.

At this, M’Baku finally looks over at T’Challa. T’Challa’s eyes seem ancient and youthful all at once, and there is an undeniable sweetness in their depths that makes M’Baku want to keep promises. 

“I think I would like that very much,” M’Baku says.

With that, T’Challa smiles and closes his eyes. 

M’Baku does not sleep at all.  
~

M’Baku begins to wonder how he ever spent all those days in the mortal world without T’Challa’s company.

They wander the earth together nearly every day that M’Baku is not in the underworld, for their paths really are not all that different. M’Baku collects souls that cannot lead themselves to the underworld, and T’Challa leaves gifts in their wake, flowers in graves and fresh vegetables in widows’ gardens. They talk about everything and nothing, and M’Baku feels a lightness in his spirit that would unnerve him, were the feeling not so welcome. T’Challa’s radiant smile teases out a side of M’Baku he has not seen in decades, and M’Baku feels his heart swell whenever he succeeds in making T’Challa laugh.

As happy as he is, however, M’Baku does not feel free. Soon he finds himself looking over his shoulder when he is with T’Challa, convinced that they are being watched. Companionship between gods is not in itself an odd thing, but M’Baku has never been popular amongst the Olympians, and he knows that sooner or later, someone will notice.

Even so, it happens sooner than he expected.


	3. Bronze

“So what’s his name?” Alecto says.

M’Baku narrowly avoids choking on his wine.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with gruff shake of his head.

They are in M’Baku’s throne room, and Alecto has been showing M’Baku her newest invention: a miniature bronze automaton modeled after Cerberus, about the size of a mortal lapdog. It is as spirited and energetic as any real dog, and it is currently running circles around M’Baku’s throne, its three little heads whipping about as it takes in its new home. 

Alecto scoops the dog up in her arms and pats it affectionately. One of the dog’s heads begins gnawing on one of Alecto’s leathery wings, but she does not seem to notice.

“You know full well what I mean,” Alecto says. “You suddenly enjoy spending time in the mortal world, you smile into the middle distance like some lovestruck schoolboy, Megaera even said she heard you singing the other day.” She shudders. “Singing, M’Baku. You know you are tone-deaf.”

“I have a lovely voice,” M’Baku scoffs. “And why are you still here? Wouldn’t you much rather got to the Fields of Punishment and torture some rapists? Or perhaps some child murderers?”

“It’s Tisiphone’s day to torture rapists,” Alecto explains.

“Then go visit Hephaestus. I’m sure he could use your help.”

All three furies are intelligent, but Alecto possesses a brilliance that garnered her a position as an apprentice to the lord of the forge himself. She is always coming back to the underworld with new ideas for forging metal and improving Elysium’s architecture, and M’Baku is always happy to let her experiment.

“You see, I would,” Alecto says impishly, “but he caught his wife with Ares again. Hephaestus will not be in the mood to see anyone for at least another week.”

“Ugh, again?”

“In a trap of my own making, I might add,” Alecto says proudly, bouncing the bronze dog on her hip like a baby. “You know I cannot abide adulterers.”

M’Baku sighs. “That is really too bad. Hephaestus and I are in the midst of a passionate affair ourselves.”

Alecto squeals with delighted horror, and their peals of laughter echo throughout the room.

“I am serious, M’Baku,” Alecto says when she finally calms down. “Who is the miracle worker that has stolen your heart? I would like to congratulate him.”

“He has not stolen my-“ M’Baku starts, then backpedals. “We are friends and nothing more.”

Alecto’s eyes light up. 

“You are in love!” she crows happily. 

M’Baku throws his hands up in exasperation, but he cannot help the smile playing around his lips. Alecto and her sisters are the closest thing he has to family, and he is grateful for their company. He cannot help but think about how much T’Challa would love them too.

M’Baku opens his mouth to respond, but he is cut of by the doors to the throne room banging open.

Tisiphone and Megaera are barreling towards them, their wings beating a frantic melody against the air as they drop onto the granite floor.

“M’Baku,” Tisiphone says, her voice oddly thin. “There is a visitor for you outside the gate.”

M’Baku looks from the grim set of Tisiphone’s mouth to Megaera’s frightened eyes. A small, hard pit begins to form in his stomach.

“It’s Lady Hera,” Megaera says. “She does not want to be kept waiting.”

M’Baku grips the arm of his throne so hard he feels the iron groan beneath his hands.

“Show her to the garden,” he says. “Tell her I’ll be there shortly.”

Tisiphone and Megaera exchange a look and fly out of the room, the doors slamming behind them.

M’Baku rests his face in his hands, massaging his temples as if it can somehow make himself comprehend the situation.

For the first time in history, the wife of Zeus has visited the underworld. And he can think of only one reason why.

~

M’Baku finds Hera by the fountain in the palace gardens. The ghostly light of the garden’s many lamps glints off the head of her spear and the heavy gold rings around her neck. Hera exudes authority in any setting, and although this is her first time in the underworld, she stands as calmly and confidently as if she herself were the lady of this realm.

“Lady Hera,” M’Baku says with all the warmth he can muster. “What a pleasant surprise. I hope you have come to tell me that Hephaestus and his dear wife have finally annulled their marriage.”

Hera throws her head back and laughs. “If that was true,” she says, “I would have already invited you to Olympus to celebrate. No, that proud fool would rather stay firmly rooted in his misery than admit that he chose the wrong prize.” 

“Ah well,” M’Baku shrugs. “I suppose not even a god as wise as Hephaestus is immune to becoming a fool for love.”

“You’ve certainly managed to avoid it,” Hera says pleasantly. “It is one of the reasons why I admire you so. Even after all these years, you have never allowed sentiment to distract you from performing your duties, as unpleasant as they may be at times.”

M’Baku clenches his hands by his sides, but his smile never moves.

“So why are you here then?” he asks.

Hera tilts her head in a way reminiscent of a mother amused with the antics of her infant son.

“You know why I am here, M’Baku.”

“I am afraid I do not,” M’Baku says. The saccharine tone of his voice is gone now. “You see, I have broken no law, nor neglected my subjects. So I must ask you again: why are you here?”

Hera says nothing for a moment. She merely looks him up and down, like a lioness determining whether or not her prey is worth the effort.

“I am here,” she says finally, “because I am concerned for your heart. And I am not the only one.” She takes a step closer to him.

“The son of Demeter is a rather odd choice for a companion, don’t you agree?”

M’Baku sucks his lips in against his teeth.

“I was not aware there were laws against two gods befriending one another.”

“And there are none,” Hera says firmly, “if, indeed, that is all they are: friendships. Listen, M’Baku, who you bring to your bed is none of my concern-“

“Good,” M’Baku says.

Hera’s eyes flash, but she continues.

“You and T’Challa are from two different worlds,” she says. “A falcon might fall in love with a dolphin, but where would they stay?”

“Spare me your platitudes, Hera,” M’Baku says, his knobkerrie materializing in his right hand. “T’Challa has expressed no interest in anything beyond friendship, and neither have I. So when you report back to your beloved husband-“

Hera closes the space between them so quickly that M’Baku barely has time to register the movement. One moment Hera is standing next to the fountain; the next she is standing a hair’s breadth away from M’Baku, with her eyes full of fire and her finger pointing in accusation.

“Do not speak to me as if I am my husband’s errand-girl,” she snarls. “I came of my own volition because it is painfully obvious that you have forgotten how quickly word travels on Olympus. He is not for you, M’Baku. I would not have you throw away your reputation and upend the natural order itself simply because some doe-eyed flower god is leading you around by your-“

M’Baku slams his knobkerrie against the ground, and the sound reverberates through the garden like thunder.

“You come into my palace uninvited and you lecture me about reputation,” M’Baku growls. “Perhaps you should’ve started with your own husband.”

Hera rolls her eyes. 

“You think I do not know what my husband does behind my back?” she says scornfully. “I am more acquainted with Zeus’s flaws than anyone else on Olympus. Believe me, he has many. But his infidelity is no fault of my own. I have remained faithful, and I have never forgotten my duties as guardian of the hearth and the home. That is enough for me. You are the god of an entire world. Why are you not satisfied?”

M’Baku turns away, seething, but a heavy weight has settled across his heart. He tries to imagine T’Challa in this garden, with its metallic soil and its ghostly trees, and it is like trying to imagine a rose amongst a tribe of skeletons.

M’Baku sighs.

“I promise you there is nothing between us,” M’Baku says. He hates how broken he sounds. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Hera places her hand on M’Baku’s shoulder and looks up at him with a look in her eyes that is almost sorrowful.

“I believe you,” she says, not unkindly, “but I am not the one you must convince.”

M’Baku nods, and Hera steps back, satisfied. She raps her spear against the ground and disappears in a flash of golden light.

M’Baku is alone in the garden with only her words for company.

He is not for you.

The gate creaks open behind him. Tisiphone, Magaera, and Alecto step into the garden, their faces marked with concern.

“Is everything alright, M’Baku?” Megaeara asks.

“She was concerned about all the time I’ve been spending in the mortal world,” M’Baku says, punctuating his words with a casual shrug. He does not look any of them in the eyes. “It was a silly misunderstanding that was righted with a simple conversation. Were she not satisfied, she would still be here. Now Alecto, I don’t believe you’ve shown your sisters your new pet. Why don’t you bring him out here so he can see the garden?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alecto- Shuri  
> Megaera- Nakia  
> Tisiphone- Ayo  
> Hera- Okoye


	4. Earth

M’Baku is standing by the road where he and T’Challa first met, and T’Challa is bathing in the river.

M’Baku knows he should avert his eyes, that he should not even be here, but he cannot bring himself to look away. He is helpless, transfixed by the way T’Challa’s taut muscles roll beneath his skin and the way the droplets of water glisten in his hair. 

As if hearing his thoughts, T’Challa turns to M’Baku and smiles, holding his hand out in invitation.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” he asks.

M’Baku’s clothing falls away, or perhaps he was never wearing clothes to begin with, and he steps into the water. When he reaches T’Challa, he pauses, unsure of what to say or do.

Then T’Challa threads his arms around M’Baku’s waist, and M’Baku forgets how to breathe.

T’Challa presses his lips to M’Baku’s collarbone before resting his chin on his shoulder.

“How could you not know?” T’Challa murmurs. He runs his hands up and down M’Baku’s back. “How could you not see how much I love you?”

M’Baku closes his eyes as he wraps his arms around T’Challa, feels his warm and solidity, his beating heart.

“I did not think it possible,” M’Baku says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, M’Baku,” T’Challa says, his lips ghosting over the base of M’Baku’s throat. “I’ve loved you since that day you held Death back from N’Jadaka’s father.”

M’Baku feels as if his heart might burst from joy. He places his hand at the base of T’Challa’s neck and pulls away so that he might see his face.

M’Baku stares into the empty eye sockets of a grinning skull.

M’Baku recoils in horror, and the skeleton that was once T’Challa crumbles into dust as it hits the water. A dark shadow spreads across the river, and M’Baku realizes that it is coming from him. He throws himself towards the shore, but his limbs feel as if they have been turned to stone, and he can no longer keep himself afloat. The black water around him begins to boil as he sinks, and-

M’Baku startles awake with a gasp. He sits upright in his bed, his heart beating frantically as he tries to catch his breath.

It was only a dream, but his skin feels as if it might crawl off of his very bones. The darkness, the fear, the sorrow... it clings to him so tightly that he may as well still be drowning in those evil waters.

And T’Challa... oh, T’Challa...

M’Baku buries his face in his hands and allows himself to weep for the first time in centuries.

~

“You seem troubled, my friend,” T’Challa says.

The two of them are sitting underneath an apple tree on the side of a mountain, watching the sun set. Up until now, their conversation has held nothing out of the ordinary, and M’Baku has allowed himself to believe that he was successful in concealing his true feelings.

M’Baku paints on a smile and playfully nudges T’Challa’s shoulder.

“How could I be troubled when I have such pleasant company?” he says.

T’Challa rolls his eyes but returns his smile.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” T’Challa says as he stands up. He plucks a fat, glossy apple from a low hanging branch and produces a small knife from his belt.

“I do not wish to be a burden to you,” M’Baku says, trying and failing to keep his tone light.

T’Challa slices off half of the apple and hands it to M’Baku. Their hands brush as M’Baku accepts it, and M’Baku is thrust back into his dream as he remembers how it felt to have all of T’Challa pressed against him for those few moments before the nightmare began.

“Oh, M’Baku,” T’Challa says with a sad little smile. “It is a bitter thing to know that you think I could ever see you as a burden.”

For a moment, M’Baku wants to tell T’Challa everything. The visit from Hera, his nightmare, all the feelings he has fought so hard to suppress... they all threaten to burst from his lips and destroy this fragile, unnamed thing between them.

M’Baku says nothing. He takes a bite of his half of the apple, and T’Challa does the same. T’Challa’s skin glows like burnished copper in the last red rays of the setting sun, and M’Baku forces himself not to stare.

Has T’Challa always been this beautiful? Has his slight widow’s peek always been so charming? The slight gap between his two front teeth so endearing? His ears so perfectly shaped?

M’Baku finishes the last of his apple.

“If you must know why I seem troubled,” he says finally, “one of the furies created a new pet for herself, and its barking has driven me to distraction for the past few days.”

T’Challa arches an eyebrow. It is clear that he does not believe him, but T’Challa is always excited to hear M’Baku talk about the underworld.

“Which one?” he asks.

“Alecto,” M’Baku answers. “Hephaestus’s apprentice. You would like her, I think.”

“I’m sure I would,” T’Challa says, looking down at his hands. “The furies... do they live with you?”

“Yes,” M’Baku says. “We share the palace. The Olympians often forget they are goddesses too, in their own right.”

And then M’Baku understands what T’Challa is really asking.

“It’s not like that,” M’Baku adds quickly. “They’re like my sisters, really.”

T’Challa raises his hands defensively. “I meant no disrespect.”

“I do not doubt that,” M’Baku says mildly.

An awkward silence settles over the two of them as the sun finally disappears.

“Tell me about your home,” T’Challa says finally.

“The underworld?” M’Baku says. “Well, I doubt you want to know all the gory details about the Fields of Punishment. But as for Elysium-“

“Oh no,” T’Challa says, interrupting. “I meant your actual home. The palace... what’s it like?”

“Oh,” M’Baku says. “It’s... drafty. Rather small, not nearly as fancy as anything on Olympus. But it suits us just fine. Alecto has her forge, Megaera and I have our library, and Tisiphone... well, Tisiphone has a new interest every week. Most recently it was archery, but nowadays she’s taken up weaving, so I suppose she’ll be setting up a room for that soon.”

T’Challa smiles, clearly amused.

“It’s all rather boring, really,” M’Baku says.

“All the same,” T’Challa says, “I would like to see it.”

M’Baku’s throat constricts as he remembers Hera’s visit, but he merely smiles at T’Challa.

“Ah, I’m sure your home is much lovelier,” M’Baku says jovially.

But T’Challa only shakes his head.

“I have no home, M’Baku.”

“What?”

T’Challa sighs, fiddling with the grass around him.

“I’ve wandered this earth as soon as I left my mother’s house,” he says. “I come back to see her every once in a while, of course, but beyond that, I rarely sleep in the same place twice.”

“The world is your home, then?” M’Baku asks.

T’Challa scratches his beard, a thoughtful frown etched on his forehead.

“Not quite,” he says. “In the beginning, I wandered hoping that one day I would happen upon a place that felt like home. But I have been all over the world, and while I have seen indescribable beauty, nothing ever felt quite right. Now I know that I will never find home in a single place.”

“So why do you still wander?” M’Baku asks. 

“Because there will always be people who need me,” T’Challa says. “And instead of searching for some place to call my own, I search for someone.”

“Someone.” M’Baku echoes.

“Yes,” T’Challa says. “Because if I ever meet someone who loves me, then it will not matter whether or not I wander the earth forever. Wherever they are, wherever I love and am loved in return... that will be my home.”

T’Challa looks up and meets M’Baku’s eyes.

It would be so easy to kiss him, M’Baku thinks. To just close the distance between them and bare all that he has hidden since their first meeting. He imagines laying T’Challa down onto the soft grass beneath them and mapping a constellation of kisses against the night sky of his skin. He imagines making love to him right here under the stars, pressing T’Challa’s body to the earth and whispering a thousand promises into the hollow at the base of his throat. He imagines...

He is not for you, M’Baku.

Hera’s words echo as clearly in M’Baku’s mind as if she were standing right next to him.

M’Baku looks away from T’Challa.

“Then I hope you find everything you are looking for,” M’Baku says to the darkness in front of him.

“Thank you,” T’Challa says, his voice quiet in a way that makes M’Baku feel as if there is a knife twisting between his third and fourth rib.

They sit together in silence for what feels like an eternity. M’Baku keeps glancing over every few minutes, each time expecting T’Challa to have disappeared. But he is still there, staring up at the stars, hands clasped around his knees. 

Finally, M’Baku sighs.

“If... if I did take you to the palace,” M’Baku says carefully, “what would you like to see?”

T’Challa looks at M’Baku, surprised.

“Do you have a garden?” he asks almost shyly.

M’Baku cannot help but laugh.

“I do,” he says. “Although I do not think you will be very impressed by it. I will take you to the underworld for one day, if that is what you truly desire. But-“

“But what?”

“There are those who might... disapprove,” M’Baku says weakly.

T’Challa bursts into laughter.

“You are worried about gossip, M’Baku?” T’Challa says incredulously. “You are taking me to visit your home, not kidnapping me and forcing me to marry you.”

Now it is M’Baku’s turn to laugh, so loud and so harsh that the sleeping birds in the tree branches above them awaken and fly away.

He feels as if his heart is splitting in two.

“Alright then,” M’Baku says when he catches his breath. “I will take you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” T’Challa asks curiously.

“Yes,” M’Baku replies. “I will need to inform the furies of your arrival. And I will need time to make your visit as bearable for you as possible.”

T’Challa grins.

“How could I find the trip unbearable when I have such pleasant company?” T’Challa says, echoing M’Baku’s words from earlier. 

M’Baku smirks.

“Meet me here tomorrow at sunset,” M’Baku says, standing up.

“Of course,” T’Challa says. “Thank you, M’Baku.”

M’Baku looks down at T’Challa, this man who has stolen his heart without even realizing it.

“You’re welcome, my friend,” he says.

With that, T’Challa smiles and disappears.

For a moment, M’Baku just stands there, feeling the silence of the night press against him on all sides.

“What a great fool you are, M’Baku,” he says to himself.

Then he strikes his knobkerrie against the earth and vanishes into the night


	5. Fire

When M’Baku arrives at the tree the next evening, T’Challa is already there.

“There you are,” T’Challa says with a smile, stepping out from under the tree’s shadow. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me.”

M’Baku opens his mouth to respond, but then his eyes fall on T’Challa, and he forgets how to speak.

T’Challa’s simple, pristinely white robes are gone. Instead he wears a tunic as black as M’Baku’s own clothing, embroidered with silver thread that catches the sun’s dying light as he moves. The darkness of his apparel contrasts sharply with the glow of his skin and smile, making him seem even more radiant than usual.

He looks like a dream, M’Baku thinks. As if the sun itself has left the sky to see him.

T’Challa clasps his hands behind his back, and M’Baku realizes he still has not said anything.

“You look well,” M’Baku says, then immediately curses how stupid he sounds.

But T’Challa only beams.

“Do you like it?” he asks. “I thought I should dress for the occasion. It’s not everyday I receive such an invitation.”

“You could’ve worn a burlap sack,” M’Baku says, “and I would still be more honored to have you than if I were hosting every being on Mount Olympus.”

The look on T’Challa’s face nearly brings M’Baku to his knees.

“I believe it is you who honors me, dear friend,” T’Challa says softly.

“Not that the Olympians are a standard you ought to hold yourself to,” M’Baku adds hastily, attempting to lighten the mood. “You know I cannot stand most of my relatives.”

T’Challa laughs and shakes his head.

M’Baku clears his throat and holds his hand out to T’Challa.

“Shall we go then?” he asks.

T’Challa takes M’Baku’s hand in his, and M’Baku finds that T’Challa’s skin is as warm as sun-baked stones. He looks up at M’Baku expectantly.

“Your journey will be smoothest,” M’Baku says quietly, “if you do not let go of me.”

“I would not dream of it,” T’Challa says, brushing his thumb over the back of M’Baku’s hand.

M’Baku swallows roughly. He as never had a gift for prophecy, like Apollo or Hecate, but he has a sudden and distinct feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff.

If he takes T’Challa down to the underworld, nothing will ever be the same.

But it is too late to turn back now.

M’Baku squares his shoulders and tightens his grip on T’Challa’s hand.

“Let’s be off, then,” he says.

He slams his knobkerrie against the earth, and the lengthening shadows swallow both of them whole.

~

When they arrive at the palace gates, Tisiphone and Megaera are waiting for them. They make a striking pair in their fine robes, long, flowing things that change from black to purple to blue like ravens’ wings.

“T’Challa,” M’Baku says as they approach, “may I present to you the Infernal Sisters, Tisiphone and Megaera.”

Tisiphone and Megaera incline their heads in greeting.

“Welcome, son of Demeter,” Megaera says warmly. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

“And I you, my lady,” T’Challa says, nodding his head in kind. “Although...” he says with a questioning look towards M’Baku, “I was told there were three of you.”

“Normally there is,” M’Baku says with a pointed glance towards Tisiphone and Megaera. 

They shrug helplessly.

As if on queue, a great crashing noise sounds from around the corner of the palace. Alecto’s bronze dog appears, flapping a single wing on his back. Alecto follows on his heels, a single wing in her right hand.

“There she is,” Tisiphone says wearily. 

The dog runs straight to T’Challa, putting his front paws on T’Challa’s legs as all three heads sniff curiously at his robe. T’Challa stays firmly in place, looking down at the dog with a mix of amusement and curiosity.

“Lord T’Challa!” Alecto exclaims as she scoops the dog up in her arms. “You’re here!”

T’Challa smiles and bows his head.

“I am indeed, Lady Alecto,” he says. “M’Baku has told me of your brilliance. Is this beautiful creature yours?”

Alecto seems to swell with pride.

“He is,” she says. “His name is Argonious. I had hoped to attach his wings by the time you arrived, but-“ she gives the dog a playful jostle, “he seemed to have other ideas.”

“Well, I would hate to interrupt your work,” T’Challa says graciously. “If you and Lord M’Baku are willing, I would love to watch you finish your creation.”

Alecto gasps and looks up at M’Baku.

MBaku smiles and nods his head. 

She squeals and grabs T’Challa’s arm, tugging him towards the palace behind her.

“You’re going to love the forge!” she says as they disappear behind the gates.

When Alecto’s chatter has faded, Tisiphone turns to M’Baku, her hands on her hips.

“Well, M’Baku,” she says. “I wish you luck trying to tear that boy away from Alecto.”

M’Baku laughs in spite of himself. “I told you he was charming.”

“But you never mentioned he was so handsome.” Megaera says teasingly. 

M’Baku just rolls his eyes and drapes his arms around their shoulders as they walk to the palace.

~

After a tour of the palace itself, the five of them make their way to Alecto’s forge. It is one of the largest rooms in the place, bigger than the M’Baku’s throne room and almost as big as the library. The walls of it are covered with elaborate plans for new buildings in Elysium, and the floors are littered with the beginnings of new automatons. T’Challa watches as Alecto attaches Argonious’s other wing.

“This is incredible,” T’Challa says as Argonious flies around the room.

“I have too many designs in progress to show you all at once,” Alecto says, “but perhaps M’Baku can bring you back another day.”

As pleasant as the idea of bringing T’Challa back to the underworld is, M’Baku cannot fight back the memories of Hera’s visit. But when Alecto and T’Challa look at him, he only smiles vaguely.

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he echoes.

They spend the next few hours in Alecto’s forge. T’Challa is eager to learn about each of the furies, and he listens respectfully as they tell him about their lives and duties in the underworld. Despite M’Baku’s apprehension, it brings him no little joy to see the furies so at ease with T’Challa, as if he was a long lost brother come home with tales of a far off land.

Before M’Baku realizes it, the day is almost over.

M’Baku clears his throat and rises.

“It is almost time for me to return Lord T’Challa to the world above,” he says to the furies, “but I promised him I would let him see the gardens. Would you all care to join us?”

The furies exchange a look amongst themselves. Megaera rises with a mysterious smile.

“We would love to,” she says, “but unfortunately, there are a few new rapists in the Fields of Punishment that we must see to.”

“Since when does tormenting rapists require all three of you?” M’Baku says, his brow furrowing.

“They’re very large,” Tisiphone says flatly.

Alecto jumps up, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Well, we must be off,” she says brightly. “Lord T’Challa, it was a pleasure. Argonious, come.”

They all rise into the air and fly out of the room. M’Baku hears Alecto’s giggling echo down the hall.

For the first time that night, M’Baku and T’Challa are alone.

“You have a lovely family, M’Baku,” T’Challa says.

Family. An odd word, but a fitting one. 

“I love them very much,” M’Baku says, his own sincerity startling him.

T’Challa looks up at him, his eyes heavy with something M’Baku cannot name.

M’Baku gestures towards the door. 

“Shall we?” he says.

~

When they step into the gardens, T’Challa gasps.

“Oh, M’Baku,” he says reverently. “It’s beautiful.”

“They’re alright, I suppose,” M’Baku says. He tries to see the gardens through T’Challa’s eyes, but he sees only ghostly imitations of the beautiful plants from the world above. Even so, M’Baku supposes that they might appear striking to someone who had never seen them before. 

T’Challa walks towards a slender pomegranate tree and gestures towards the pale, pearl-like fruit.

“Are they real?” T’Challa asks.

“As real as you and I,” M’Baku says, “but I implore you not to eat them. One bite of fruit or one drop of wine here in the underworld would mean you would have to stay here forever.”

“Would you permit me to touch one?” T’Challa asks.

M’Baku nods.

Slowly, T’Challa stretches his hand out towards a low-hanging pomegranate.

The reaction is immediate. First a brilliant red spreads across its milky surface, and the entire tree begins to transform, changing color and thickening until it resembles an ordinary tree from the mortal world. But what a beautiful tree it is. The fruit is as lush and round as dewdrops, and their perfume is so intoxicating that M’Baku’s mouth begins to water.

Hera was right. T’Challa could never be satisfied here.

“It’s lovely,” M’Baku says.

T’Challa turns around, a proud grin on his face, but it drops as soon as he sees M’Baku. He drops his arms and takes a step towards M’Baku, the tree all but forgotten.

“What is wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” M’Baku waves his hand in front of his face and looks away from T’Challa. “I’m fine.”

T’Challa rests his hand on M’Baku’s shoulder and M’Baku feels the heat through his clothing.

“M’Baku,” he says gently, “you’ve grown more and more troubled with every meeting. Have I done something to hurt you?”

M’Baku shakes his head, fighting to keep his face neutral.

“Of course not,” he says. “Your presence has been a great blessing to me. You know this.”

T’Challa moves in front of M’Baku and puts his other hand on his forearm.

“Then tell me what ails you,” T’Challa pleads, his eyes wide and guileless. “Do you know how it pains me to see you like this? Perhaps I might be able to help in some way.”

For one fleeting moment, M’Baku contemplates telling him. But then he gently pulls away from T’Challa’s grasp.

“Oh, my friend,” he says. “I am afraid that telling you would only make it worse.”

T’Challa steps back, and the hurt in his eyes cuts straight to M’Baku’s heart.

“Very well,” T’Challa says. “I will trouble you no more.” He walks back towards the pomegranate tree.

M’Baku presses the heel of his hand into his forehead and tries to ignore the stinging in his eyes.

He was an idiot for ever believing that he could take T’Challa to his home and not suffer for it. Oh, how he wishes-

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of rustling leaves. M’Baku turns around.

T’Challa has plucked a pomegranate and is now looking at it intently.

“T’Challa,” M’Baku says, a warning in his voice, “what are you-”

“You know, M’Baku,” T’Challa says, “I really do believe that it would be better for both of us if I ate this pomegranate. Perhaps if I were down here all the time, we would finally stop dancing around one another like coquettish schoolboys.”

T’Challa’s words suck the air from M’Baku’s lungs. For a moment, they only stare at one another.

“Just put it down, T’Challa,” M’Baku chokes out.

T’Challa let’s the fruit fall from his hand. It hits the soft soil with barely a sound.

M’Baku turns away from T’Challa and begins to walk back to the palace, his face burning with fury and shame.

“Bringing you here was a mistake,” he growls over his shoulder.

Suddenly T’Challa materializes in front of him, and M’Baku skids to a halt.

“You must know by now,” T’Challa says. His eyes are like twin stars, burning with strange fire. “I fear it will kill me if stay silent any longer. M’Baku, I love-”

“Do not say things you do not mean, son of Demeter.”

“I do not lie, M’Baku,” he says, holding his ground. “And you, I’m afraid, cannot lie well.”

M’Baku shakes his head as if trying to awaken from a nightmare and pushes past T’Challa.

“Fine, then,” T’Challa calls after him. “Just say it and I will leave you alone.”

M’Baku stops and turns around. T’Challa’s face is set in a stony determination, his fists balled up at his sides

“Say what?” M’Baku asks.

T’Challa takes a slow step towards M’Baku, as if he is an animal that he does not want to frighten away.

“Swear you do not love me,” T’Challa says. “Swear it on the River Styx, and I will trouble you no longer.”

They stare each other down for what feels like centuries, and M’Baku feels as if he is drowning.

“You are a cruel god,” M’Baku finally says, his voice broken in his own ears. “You know I cannot make that vow.”

T’Challa says nothing. M’Baku takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues.

“I do love you, T’Challa. I love you so much that sometimes I cannot breathe with it. But love alone is not enough. I would be a selfish fool to ask you to leave the world above for this one. How could I-“

It happens before M’Baku can react. One moment T’Challa is standing completely still, the next he is pressed flush against M’Baku, kissing him so hard that he goes blind.

When M’Baku regains his sight, he flails his arms helplessly beside him, too shocked to respond. T’Challa’s arms twist around him, vine-like, and the scent of T’Challa’s skin pressed against his nearly causes M’Baku’s knees to buckle.

When T’Challa finally pulls away, they both regard each other wordlessly, panting as they try to regain enough breath to speak. T’Challa touches M’Baku’s face with a heartbreaking tenderness.

“I may not be the mighty god of death,” T’Challa says, his eyes bright with unshed tears, “but I am capable of making my own decisions, my love.”

My love.

M’Baku pushes his face against T’Challa’s hand. The sun itself is holding him.

His fate is sealed.

“I choose you, M’Baku,” T’Challa says. His voice is quiet, urgent. “I choose you, and everything that comes with you. Please-“

Now it is M’Baku’s turn to interrupt.

He catches T’Challa’s face in his hands and kisses him with tongue and teeth, walking him backwards until his back is pressed up against the pomegranate tree. He scoops T’Challa up into his arms, and T’Challa wraps his legs around M’Baku’s waist, moaning against his lips.

How long they stay like that, M’Baku cannot say. But then T’Challa pulls away, gasping.

“Take me to your bed,” he says, eyes fluttering closed as M’Baku buries his face in his neck. “Please, M’Baku.”

M’Baku left his knobkerrie back in Alecto’s forge, but he has no real need for it here in the underworld. He pulls T’Challa against him and closes his eyes as the shadows consume them both.

~

M’Baku worships T’Challa that night.

Every kiss and every touch is an offering on the altar of T’Challa’s body, and every moan that M’Baku pulls from T’Challa’s parted lips is a miraculous gift that fills M’Baku with a joy so sharp it feels like pain.

T’Challa’s legs are hitched high over M’Baku’s shoulders, and he writhes against the mattress as M’Baku loves him. M’Baku revels in the tight, silken clutch of T’Challa’s body, and his hips press flush against T’Challa’s thighs and buttocks on every stroke. Their fingers intertwine against the mattress as M’Baku catches T’Challa’s lips in a kiss. T’challa wraps his legs around the back of M’Baku’s neck and keeps him there. M’Baku buries his face in T’Challa’s neck and groans.

“I would’ve let you have me the first day we met,” T’Challa says breathlessly. “You were so beautiful. The night itself made flesh. I wanted you to-“

“I love you,” M’Baku says, his voice breaking as he increases the speed of his thrusts. He wraps his hand around T’Challa’s member and begins to strip it furiously. T’Challa cries out his, back arching off the bed, and M’Baku wraps his arm around him, holding him aloft.

“I can’t last,” T’Challa gasps.

“Then don’t,” M’Baku says as he slips a finger inside T’Challa’s entrance alongside his own swollen cock. “Let me hear you scream.”

With that, M’Baku gives up all control entirely and lays into T’Challa, his legs shaking with the force of his thrusts. T’Challa’s eyes roll back into his head as he spurts all over their chests and bellies, and M’Baku feels himself shattering. His own orgasm takes him moments later, and he allows it to pull him mercilessly under, trusting that T’Challa will catch him when he falls.

~

M’Baku feels as if he is floating somewhere high above the earth. He is boneless, weightless, too exhausted to open his own eyes.

But then he feels T’Challa press a row of kisses against his temple. Feels him trace the black tattoos running the length of his chest.

“Come back to me,” T’Challa whispers.

M’Baku opens his eyes and smiles at the sight of T’Challa’s face. His lips are swollen from kisses and there is a sheen of sweat still lingering on his brow.

M’Baku takes T’Challa’s hand in his and presses a kiss to the back of it.

“I never left,” he says as he takes T’Challa in his arms, pulling him close so that his head is resting on M’Baku’s chest.

T’Challa smiles and leans forward to kiss the tip of M’Baku’s nose.

“You’ve ruined me, M’Baku,” T’Challa says, an impish light in his eyes. “You couldn’t possibly send me home like this, at least not yet. However will I manage to walk properly?”

M’Baku traces the widows peak of T’Challa’s hairline and grins.

“I am nothing if not a gracious host,” M’Baku says. “However, if you stay another day, Alecto will want to show you her new design for Elysium’s irrigation system, and who knows how long that will take? You will have to stay the next day as well.”

“I may as well stay a third day then,” T’Challa says. “I do not believe I explored the gardens to my satisfaction. Or the library, for that matter.”

M’Baku turns on his side so that T’Challa is lying next to him, cradled in his arms.

“It is settled then,” he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of T’Challa’s mouth. “You will stay until you grow tired of me.”

“It is settled then,” T’Challa echoes. “I will never leave.”

M’Baku flips T’Challa onto his stomach and begins to press a row of kisses down the length of T’Challa’s spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. T’Challa lets out a shuddering breath and smiles blissfully as M’Baku reaches the small of his back.

They need no words after that.


	6. Glass

They make love for three days.

When they finally stagger out of M’Baku’s bedroom, giggling and still half-drunk on their passion, the first thing M’Baku does is drag T’Challa back to the gardens.

“It’s yours now,” he whispers, embracing T’Challa from behind and sealing his words with a kiss on the side of his neck.

T’Challa grins, so bright and beautiful M’Baku feels as if his heart might burst.

They spend the rest of the day there. M’Baku has seen T’Challa use his powers before, but never like this. Under his influence, the trees thicken, the vines double in length, and bare branches cover themselves in new blooms. The entire garden explodes with new growth. Even so, T’Challa does not change any of the trees to completely mimic earthly trees, as he did on his first day in the underworld.

“It’s fascinating, M’Baku,” T’Challa says, gently touching the petals of a rose that appears to be made out of clear glass but bends under his touch. It flushes a pale pink but does not lose its transparency. “How did you grow them?”

“All the plants you see were grown from the seeds of earthly plants,” M’Baku explains. “It is the soil that changes them.”

“And if you planted their seeds in the mortal world, would they change back?” T’Challa asks curiously.

“You could not plant them at all,” M’Baku says. “Anything grown in the underworld turns to stone in the world above.”

T’Challa says nothing for a moment.

“Pity,” he says finally. “The fruit here looks delicious.” He waggles his eyebrows at M’Baku.

M’Baku half-smiles and covers T’Challa’s hands with his own.

“A love behind locked doors might as well be an imprisonment,” M’Baku says, pressing a feather-soft kiss to the center of T’Challa’s forehead. “I want you to have a way out, should you choose it.”

For a moment, T’Challa looks like he wants argue. But then he snakes his arms around M’Baku’s neck, standing on his toes to compensate for the height difference between them.

“I will not go against your wishes, dear heart,” he says, lips pressed against the thicket of M’Baku’s beard. “It is fortunate that you are the most delicious thing down here.”

M’Baku laces his fingers across the small of T’Challa’s back and bends to kiss him.

“There you are!”

Startled, the two of them break apart and turn to see Alecto leaning up against the fountain.

“What a relief,” she says as Megaera and Tisiphone step out of the shadows behind her. “You were in your chambers for so long. Tisiphone was worried that we were never going to see you again.”

“My apologies, good lady,” T’Challa says, stifling a laugh. “I asked Lord M’Baku here to tell me of his many adventures in the war against the titans, and he told them so eloquently that it took days before I was ready for him to stop.”

At this, the furies burst into laughter. M’Baku rolls his eyes and gives T’Challa a playful shove. He cannot bring himself to feel embarrassed when the joy and passion of the last few days still hangs over them like the warmth of the sun.

When the furies finally recover, M’Baku clears his throat.

“Lord T’Challa will be staying with us for a while,” he says, glancing in T’Challa’s direction, “if that is still his wish.”

T’Challa slips his hand into M’Baku’s and squeezes it.

“You know it is,” T’Challa says, his face radiant.

“Praise be,” Alecto says. “Now M’Baku can finally stop brooding about the palace like a lovestruck princess.”

“I am the almighty god of death,” M’Baku says, not bothering to suppress his smile. “I do not brood. Now if you’ll excuse us, I believe I promised Lord T’Challa a tour of Elysium.”

~

T’Challa takes to his new home like a bird to the sky, and M’Baku’s love for him is reborn each morning.

He wants to laugh now whenever he thinks of his previous fears about T’Challa feeling trapped in a dead world. T’Challa is the very essence of life itself, the warm, unstoppable force that transforms everything it touches. New plants bloom underneath T’Challa’s feet whenever he and M’Baku walk through the gardens, and the trees themselves stretch their branches towards him, wanting nothing more than to be near his warmth.

M’Baku knows how they feel.

The furies adore T’Challa as well, Alecto most of all. T’Challa often helps her in the forge, marveling at her creations, and she glows with pride.

“I wish Hephaestus was this free with his complements,” Alecto says to M’Baku one day. “I could invent a vase that swallows the ocean and all he would do is grunt.”

Sometimes, as M’Baku holds T’Challa’s sleeping form at night, worry will begin to creep out of the shadows of his mind. He will remember Hera’s warning, wonder why Olympus has been so quiet of late. 

But then T’Challa will turn over and whisper a half-awake “I love you” into the hollow of M’Baku’s throat, and suddenly there is no Hera, no Zeus, no god except the one in his arms.


	7. Darkness

“You’re quiet tonight,” M’Baku says, brushing his thumb over the short curls at the nape of T’Challa’s neck. “Is it well with you?

Tonight they are reclining at the base of the largest pomegranate tree in the gardens, the one that they first kissed so passionately underneath all those months ago. T’Challa is cradled in M’Baku’s lap, his head nestled against the side of M’Baku’s neck, and though there is no natural breeze in the underworld, the trees sway in time with T’Challa’s steady breaths.

T’Challa’s eyelashes ghost across M’Baku’s skin as he lifts his head to press a kiss against the corner of M’Baku’s mouth. When their eyes meet, M’Baku sees that T’Challa’s face is full of the bright, radiant sort of love that he once thought only existed in children’s stories. For the umpteenth time, he feels his chest grow warm at the knowledge that this beautiful creature has chosen him.

“I’m just happy, is all,” T’Challa says, returning to his former position and stroking M’Baku’s collarbone with his thumb. M’Baku rests his chin on top T’Challa’s head and smiles, mollified.

After a beat of silence, T’Challa speaks again.

“Tell me about the olden days,” he says. “About the day you became king of this realm.”

M’Baku chuckles, jostling T’Challa playfully.

“What? Does Zeus no longer wax poetic about our victory against the Titans?” M’Baku says. “You know the story, my love.”

“Zeus waxes poetic about his victory alone,” T’Challa says, catching M’Baku’s chin in his hand and waggling it reproachfully. “I want to hear your story, old man.”

“There’s nothing to tell. Zeus stuck me here because he could think of no place for me in the world above.” M’Baku grumbles, shifting his legs. “Hmph. ‘Old man.’ You are only a thousand or so years younger than me.”

T’Challa only laughs, and M’Baku’s heart softens even further at the sight. He is far too powerful for his own good, M’Baku thinks. T’Challa has the kind of smile that would make mortal kings start countless wars just to see once more. And M’Baku wakes up to it every morning.

M’Baku spreads his hand over T’Challa’s belly and drops a kiss on his shoulder. T’Challa tilts his head back so that their heads rest cheek-to-cheek.

“There really is not much to tell,” M’Baku says quietly. “I was the last one to leave Kronos’ stomach, and thus Zeus gave me what no one else wanted.” He gestures vaguely at their surroundings. “But I had been in darkness for so long that I found I did not mind it. He did not care what i did with this realm, so long as the dead stayed put. But it wasn’t until the furies arrived that I truly began to feel as if it was my home.” He traces the curve of T’Challa’s lower lip with his index finger. “And it wasn’t until you arrived that I began to find it beautiful.”

T’Chall takes M’Baku’s hand and holds it against his heart.

“So Zeus did not command you to build Elysium?” he asks.

M’Baku shakes his head. 

“I saw how the mortals suffered,” M’Baku says. “Through war, disease, famine, there were always those who held my attention. The mothers that did not eat so that their children might have the tiniest bit more in their stomachs. The children that became surrogate parents to their orphaned siblings when they were still babes themselves. Those who remained gentle in hardship, whose showed mercy when they had every right to take their revenge. If they did not know perfect peace in the mortal world, then they would have it here. I could give them that, at least.”

For a moment, T’Challa is still and silent.

And then he twists in M’Baku’s arms and kisses him, a river of unspoken words flowing between their lips in an unending torrent. Their hands are twisted in each other’s hair and M’Baku wholeheartedly believes could spend the rest of eternity like this, folded in T’Challa’s arms.

When T’Challa pulls away, his breath is ragged.

“M’Baku,” he says finally, the corners of his mouth trembling. “Believe me when I say that you are the most human god I have ever met. And that is why I love you, why I will always love you. Only someone who is as acquainted with death as you are could ever understand the beauty of life.”

His words send a lance straight to M’Baku’s heart, and M’Baku pulls T’Challa to him once more.

Just before their lips touch, M’Baku feels it. The slight shift in the air. The way the hairs on the back of his neck stand up of their own accord.

T’Challa feels it too.

They both scramble to their feet, and M’Baku’s knobkerrie materializes in his hand.

“T’Challa,” M’Baku says, “whatever happens, know that-“

There is a sudden flash of golden light, and a great wave of energy almost knocks them off their feet. M’Baku clutched T’Challa against him and rams the end of his knobkerrie into the earth, anchoring them.

She is standing next to the fountain when the light fades, it’s dying glow reflecting off the surface of her bare, tattooed skull. 

“Hera,” T’Challa breathes.


	8. Storm

Hera points the dull end of her spear at T’Challa.

“Have you had anything to eat or drink since you arrived here?” she asks him, her voice wound so tight it sounds as if it might break at any moment.

M’Baku steps between them, his blood boiling with anger.

“Hera,” he growls, “You are trespassing on-“

“It’s not trespassing when one arrives on Zeus’s orders,” she says severely. “Be silent, M’Baku. You’ve done enough.”

At the mention of Zeus, the words die in M’Baku’s throat.

“I have not eaten anything, queen mother,” T’Challa says quickly, taking M’Baku’s hand. “M’Baku asked that I refrain from it so that I might be able to return to the world above, if I felt so inclined.”

Hera relaxes marginally.

“Good,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. “Good.”

“What is the meaning of this?” M’Baku says. 

Hera rolls her eyes. “You know why I’m here, you great lummox. I took it upon myself to warn you, and how do you repay me? By absconding!”

“What does Zeus want with us?” T’Challa says. “M’Baku has not held me here against my will.”

Hera looks at them with something between pity and disbelief.

“You mean you don’t know?” she asks.

Their dumbfounded silence is their only answer.

“The mortal world is nigh unto frozen,” she says. “Demeter has caused the crops to wither under blankets of ice. The mortals are starving. Only your return will prevent their deaths.

T’Challa steps forward, his eyes blazing.

“My mother loves the mortals as I do,” he says. “She would never use their lives as a bargaining piece.”

“Zeus threatened to remove you forcibly from this realm if she did not,” Hera says. “She thought that you would take notice and return before this all got entirely out of hand, but-“ she snorts mirthlessly as she gestures to the love bite just barely peaking out from underneath T’Challa’s collar. “It would appear the two of you have been preoccupied.”

M’Baku’s blood roars so loudly in his ears that he can barely hear her.

“Tomorrow morning,” Hera continues, her voice deathly calm, “Zeus will arrive at your palace. Demeter and I will be with him. You are to deliver Demeter’s son to us promptly, and henceforth you are to have no contact with him. If you do not comply, the consequences will be as dire for Lord T’Challa as they will be for you. Do I make myself clear?”

A million bloody fantasies tear through M’Baku’s head. He wants to lead an army of the dead to the gates of Olympus. He wants to battle Zeus until the ichor from both their veins turns the earth’s rivers. He would do all of those things and more, if he knew he would be able to keep T’Challa.

But they are just that: fantasies. As powerful as M’Baku is, the power Zeus holds over the Olympians would ensure a crushing defeat for any single god that dare challenge him. If he does not comply, Zeus would not hesitate to tear the underworld itself limb from limb. He thinks of the humans in the world above, of the souls in Elysium, of the furies. He could not live with himself if they were harmed because of him.

And T’Challa... 

M’Baku turns to him and feels his heart splinter. T’Challa gazes up at him with equal parts love and sorrow as he squeezes his hand. To think that he knew the love of this god, this beautiful, powerful being, even for a short time. It is the greatest miracle he has ever known, and he holds the truth of it in his heart as T’Challa faces Hera.

“Tell Zeus we will make no objection,” T’Challa says, his voice level and clear. “I will return tomorrow so long as he allows my mother to restore summer to the mortals.”

Hera nods, a strange softness in her eyes.

“Zeus wanted to come tonight,” she says quietly. “But I convinced him to wait until I had informed you both. This is your last night together.” She looks at M’Baku. “Use it well.”

With that, she disappears.

T’Challa turns back to M’Baku, and M’Baku sees that he is on the verge of crying.

“Forgive me,” M’Baku whispers, his voice broken. “I never meant to-“

T’Challa’s lips crash into his, and his tears are a cleansing flood on M’Baku’s face. 

M’Baku remembers the time he harvested the soul of a fisherman who had drowned at sea during a great storm. The waves broke his ship like a child who had grown tired of an old toy, and still the fisherman’s spirit clung to what little wreckage still floated on top of the water.

M’Baku understands how he felt now, and he clings to T’Challa as the shadows mercifully cover them both.

~

“I will come back,” T’Challa whispers into the silence of their bedchamber. “I’ll find a way. I promise.”

M’Baku only holds him more tightly.

T’Challa turns around in his arms, not satisfied with his silence.

“I’m coming back, M’Baku,” he says, his eyes flashing. “I’m coming back and Zeus cannot stop me.”

“You can’t,” M’Baku says, still hoarse from the tears he shed earlier. “You saw what he did to Atlas. To Prometheus. And they were titans. I will not have you face eternal torment because of me.”

T’Challa strokes M’Baku’s beard.

“I am not a titan, my sweet one,” he murmurs. “I am but a simple harvest god who loves you with every fiber of my being. And it is that love that will help me find a way to see you again.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of M’Baku’s mouth. “I need you to believe that this is not our last goodbye.”

A great sob racks M’Baku’s shoulders, but he nods vehemently, and they spend the rest of the night tangled in each other’s arms, their bed a blessed shelter from the storm to come.


	9. Lightning

The palace grounds rest in the middle of a large lake, and M’Baku stands on its shore side by side with T’Challa, watching the horizon. Zeus could materialize at the palace in a heartbeat if he wished, but Zeus values a grand entrance more than he values efficiency. M’Baku knows that he will not miss an opportunity to remind him of his power.

M’Baku sinks his teeth into his lower lip as he remembers the night before. Remembers the way T’Challa road him with their foreheads pressed together, M’Baku grasping his waist and whispering “I can’t lose you” all the while.

M’Baku has avoided looking directly at T’Challa for most of the morning. Now he can barely tear his eyes away from him. T’Challa stares at the horizon, and he can almost see his mind working, churning away like the gears in one of Alecto’s automatons. He glows with a calm, clear light, and around his feet silvery flowers burst from the ground, craving his presence.

The furies land behind them, each of them carrying a spear.

“We will be stationed on the roof,” Tisiphone says. Her eyes are grim. “Do not hesitate to call us down.”

“Thank you, Tisiphone,” T’Challa says. “And thank you all for your kindness and hospitality.”

A sob tears its way out of Alecto’s throat, and it nearly breaks M’Baku’s heart.

T’Challa smiles sadly and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t weep for me too much, little sister,” he says, his voice gentle. “I will return before you even realize I am gone, and then I will be back to annoying you in the forge.”

“You could never annoy me, T’Challa,” she says, but she manages a small smile.

T’Challa embraces them all before they fly to the palace roof, and then he and M’Baku are alone.

M’Baku wraps his arms around T’Challa’s waist and pulls him against him. Their mouths meet in a slow, searching kiss, and T’Challa’s lips are the sweetest forbidden fruit that M’Baku has ever known.

“You are my first and only love,” M’Baku says, his voice all but broken. “No matter what happens, you must know this.”

“My heart will never beat for another,” T’Challa says, placing his hands on either side of M’Baku’s face, his eyes shining with the same fire from the day they first consummated their love. “I need you to remember my promise. No matter how long it takes, I will find my way back to your arms.”

A low rumble echoes from across the water.

He’s here.

M’Baku laces his fingers through T’Challa’s as Zeus’s barge appears, slicing through the water as if blown by gale-force winds. He can see three figures standing at its prow. It halts just before striking the shoreline.

Hera steps out onto the shore first. She is arrayed in her finery, peacock feathers trailing from her azure robes, but her face is as grim as death itself. She nods at them but says nothing.

The next to step out of the barge is Demeter, and M’Baku hears T’Challa’s sharp intake of breath. She is radiant as always, resplendent in her white headdress, but her hands shake as she walks towards them, and her eyes have lost their lovely light.

“Mother!” T’Challa says, rushing to her side. They throw their arms around each other, and M’Baku cannot fight the wave of shame that rolls over him. To think that it was because of his actions that it was because of his actions that Zeus forced Demeter to endanger the mortal lives she so dearly loves...

“Are you well?” T’Challa asks, holding her hands in his. “Has he harmed you?”

Demeter manages a smile and shakes her head.

“I am fine, my son,” she says, her voice as soft and warm as the summer breeze. “But I am better now that I see you are safe.”

“She’s just a little shaken up from the journey here,” a voice says. 

The bile rises in M’Baku’s throat as Zeus struts out of the barge, his lightning bolt crackling in his left hand. His demeanor is light, jovial even, as if he were on a hunting jaunt with old friends. 

He stops when he sees T’Challa, and a slow, wolf-like grin spreads across his face.

“My dear T’Challa,” he says, his mouth caressing his name like a sweet. “How well you look. I’ve missed seeing you around Olympus.”

Zeus’s eyes travel slowly up and down T’Challa’s body. He does not bother to conceal his lust, and M’Baku sees a muscle feather in Hera’s cheek.

If Zeus were not the king of Olympus, his ichor would already be mingling with the inky water lapping at the sand.

“I have done as you asked,” M’Baku growls. “Now leave me in peace.”

Zeus’s gaze flickers over to M’Baku, and he cocks his head as if M’Baku were a lapdog that had just performed an amusing trick.

“My dear, dear brother,” Zeus says, his voice dripping with saccharine. “I certainly do not wish to inconvenience you.” He turns towards Hera. “Darling, would you please escort Lady Demeter and Lord T’Challa to the barge? I wish to have a word with Lord M’Baku in private.”

Hera kisses her teeth and nods. Wordlessly, the three of them make their way back to the boat. T’Challa lifts his face towards M’Baku and presses his fist against his heart before stepping on board, his eyes brimming with the promises they exchanged in their bed the night before.

M’Baku presses his own fist to his chest and swallows against the tightness in his throat. 

The gesture is not lost on Zeus.

“He’s such a pretty thing, isn’t he?” Zeus says. “I can’t say I blame you for taking him.”

M’Baku takes a step towards Zeus, his knobkerrie clenched in his fist.

“If you touch him,” M’Baku hisses between clenched teeth. “I swear on the River Styx I’ll-“

“Ah ah ah,” Zeus says, waggling a finger. “Do not make promises you cannot keep.” He draws himself up to his full height, and the air around him crackles as he twirls his lightning bolt. He snorts at the expression on M’Baku’s face.

“Oh, relax, M’Baku,” Zeus says. “If it’s a good fuck you need, I can always send a dryad your way. Or a naiad, if that’s more to your liking.” He lifts his chin in the direction of the furies, still at their post on the roof. “Perhaps you can even make use of those lovely bat creatures you live with. I know I would.”

M’Baku closes his fist around Zeus’s throat and hoists him in the air. A wall of shadows spreads around him, protecting him from Zeus’s lightning bolt. Zeus’s eyes bulge in shock.

“You will not speak of the Infernal Sisters as if they were disposable playthings,” M’Baku snarls. “You may be king of Olympus, but you are still in my realms.”

“Hera, my love,” Zeus calls. “A bit of help would be appreciated.”

Hera watches from the the boat. She looks almost amused.

“I’m fine where I am, thank you dearest,” she says, making a great show of polishing her spear with the end of her robes.

“Spiteful cow,” Zeus mutters to himself. M’Baku tightens his fist.

“Brother,” Zeus chokes out. “If you do not put me down this instant, the first thing I will do when I get out of this stinking hellhole is tell Prometheus that I have found a certain harvest god to take his place.”

The rage leaves M’Baku, along with his strength, and he releases his hold on Zeus. Zeus crumples to the ground, coughing violently as he regains his composure. When he stands back up, his breathing is regulated, and his smile has returned.

“Always a pleasure to see you brother,” he says airily as he begins sauntering back to the boat. He suddenly stops and turns back around. “And please do not think of trying to contact Lord T’Challa, directly or through your furies. Poor Demeter has been through so much recently, I doubt she would respond well to seeing me peel the flesh from her son’s bones.” 

With that, he leaps into the barge and slams his lightning bolt against the prow. The boat turns around and speeds away into the darkness, taking M’Baku’s heart with it.

He is alone.

M’Baku wants to fall to his knees. To scream. To rage. To tear Zeus limb from limb. To do anything but stand and stare at the black horizon.

But that is what he does. He no longer has the heart to do anything else.

The furies land beside him. Alecto throws her spear to the ground in rage.

“Bastard!” she shrieks, angry tears streaming down her face. “I’ll cut off his testicles next time. See what good that little lightning bolt does him.”

And then M’Baku sees that Alecto’s spear has lodged in the patch of flowers where T’Challa has been standing earlier.

The flowers are now crumbling into ash before his eyes. A cold, piercing fear grips M’Baku like a vise.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”

He slams his knobkerrie against the earth and transports himself to the garden.

The color has already leeched away from the trees. All the beautiful new growth that spring into being under T’Challa’s loving hands is shrinking, shriveling back to its former state. 

As if T’Challa had never been there in the first place.

M’Baku finds the pomegranate tree that kissed underneath for the first time. It has already shrunken to half its size, and the glowing red of its fruit has vanished entirely. The deep green of the leaves is bleeding out.

M’Baku rushes over. T’Challa’s life-giving powers are gone, but these trees are still in M’Baku’s domain. Perhaps he can hold onto the beauty T’Challa gave this place, prevent it from leaving any further.

He summons all his strength and presses a hand to the trunk.

The tree’s leaves fade from emerald green to silver in a matter of seconds, and then they fall away altogether.

M’Baku staggers back and falls to his knees. It is no use. He has nothing of T’Challa to hold onto anymore. Nothing but impossible promises.

The love of his life is gone, and there is nothing he can do to bring him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zeus is W’Kabi, in case y’all haven’t already figured that out (he was such a snake in Black Panther that I just had to make him the biggest asshole in Greek mythology lol).


	10. Harvest

At times, M’Baku is tempted to pretend that he never met T’Challa.

The palace feels cavernous and hollow without him, and M’Baku has taken to sleeping in the library in order to avoid the new, gaping space in his bed. Visiting the mortal world is even worse. He cannot bear to see so much beauty, so much life, and know that he can never see its source again.

As the weeks turn into months, T’Challa’s promise to return feels more and more like a children’s story. Even so, he clings to it.

Because as hopeless as he feels, M’Baku cannot bring himself to imagine eternity without him.

~

“M’Baku,” Tisiphone says one evening, “you have a visitor.”

M’Baku turns away from the garden fountain and looks at her. There is a grim set to her mouth and a vast displeasure in her eyes.

“Who? “ M’Baku says, though he already knows the answer.

“It’s Hera,” Tisiphone says. “She claims it’s nothing urgent. She only wants to make sure that you are doing well.”

A sharp, bitter laugh tears its way out of M’Baku’s throat.

“Send her away,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

Tisiphone nods and leaves.

M’Baku sits down at the edge of the fountain and massages his temples, his chest still swirling with equal parts anger and amusement. 

To make sure that he is doing well. Ha. If Hera came to gloat, she will be sorely disappointed. M’Baku has not seen any of the Olympians since Zeus took T’Challa, and he plans to keep it that way.

“This place was so lovely when he was here,” a familiar voice says behind him.

M’Baku leaps to his feet as his knobkerrie appears in his hands. When he turns around, rage nearly blinds him.

Hera is standing underneath the pomegranate tree, thoughtfully examining one of the low hanging fruits.

M’Baku starts towards her. “I thought Tisiphone sent you away.”

Hera shrugs. “She did. But I thought you might want to hear news of your beloved.”

M’Baku lowers his knobkerrie, eyeing her suspiciously.

“No need to worry,” she says, “my husband has not bothered him. Yet, anyway. I’ve made sure of that.”

M’Baku swallows roughly. “Thank you. How is he?”

“Well enough,” she says, her gaze uncharacteristically soft. “He misses you.”

M’Baku nods, trying to stave off the lump in his throat. “Is that all?”

Hera plucks one of the pomegranates and rolls it between her hands, examining its milky surface.

“He has been searching for a way to reunite with you without directly defying Zeus. Not with much luck, but he refuses to give up. Much more powerful gods would have stopped after their first failure. His determination to see you again is admirable, really. Not especially wise, mind you. Or even understandable. But admirable.”

“Are you done?” M’Baku says flatly.

“Not quite,” she says. She closes the space between them and looks M’Baku directly in the eyes.

“I am the goddess of marriage,” she says, “not love. But marriages of passion have become quite fashionable amongst the mortals, or so it would seem.”

She falls silent for an moment, her eyes far away.

“I have never seen two beings look at each other the way the two of you did,” she says. “If the love you shared with that harvest god ran half as deep as it appeared, then I do not blame you for ignoring my warning.”

M’Baku opens his mouth in surprise, and Hera smirks.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, M’Baku,” she says. “Even an old battleaxe like me is not without feelings. I was in love once, too, you know.”

“Hera, why are you-“

“Goodness, I almost forgot!” Hera exclaims suddenly. “Zeus and I are having dinner with Apollo tonight. I must prepare myself.” She steps away from M’Baku and raps her spear against the ground. “Good night, M’Baku. Do take care of yourself.”

With that, she disappears, leaving M’Baku scratching his head in bewilderment.”

It isn’t until later that he realizes Hera took the pomegranate.

~

M’Baku dreams again that night.

He is in an open field in the mortal world. In the dim light of the moon, it almost resembles the asphodel fields. 

T’Challa is standing a few paces away, his back to M’Baku, staring up at the moon.

M’Baku tries to take a step towards him, but his feet refuse to move. His lips form around T’Challa’s name, but no sound comes out. It is as if he as been turned into a tree, silent and still.

There is a distant rumble of thunder, and M’Baku sees black stormclouds begin to blot out the stars.

Suddenly the air next to M’Baku shimmers, and M’Baku gasps when he sees who it is.

It is Hera, and she carries the pomegranate from the underworld, now turned to stone.

“There isn’t much time,” she says, handing it to T’Challa. “Zeus has almost certainly realized what I’ve done.”

T’Challa sinks to his knees, his head bowed.

“My lady,” he says, “your kindness and generosity are truly-“

“Oh, get up,” she says, hauling him to his feet. “If you hadn’t seduced that great root vegetable M’Baku we wouldn’t be in this mess. For your sake, as well as mine, I hope you do not fail.”

With that, she disappears.

T’Challa quickly plants the pomegranate, stands up, then slowly raises his left hand to his lips. He sinks his teeth into the soft flesh at the base of this thumb, and his ichor gleams as it drops onto the fresh mound of dirt. Then T’Challa closes his eyes and begins to chant, urgent, guttural noises that make M’Baku’s blood turn to ice.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then a tiny sprout pokes its way out of the earth, its leaves outstretched like a child lifting its arms to its mother to be picked up. And then it starts to transform, growing from flower to sapling to tree in a matter of seconds. White blossoms burst out from among the branches like stars.

The moon has been completely blotted out by the clouds, and lightning splits the heavens as it begins to rain. T’Challa barely spares the sky a glance as he increases the speed of his chanting. The flowers drop off the branches, and the pomegranates appear, except they are not the eerie pearl-like fruits of the underworld gardens, or the ordinary fruit of the mortal world. They are something else entirely, and they glow with a strange purple light. T’Challa plucks one off the branches and cradles it in his hands as if it were a priceless jewel.

Suddenly, the air around them crackles, and the hairs on the back of M’Baku’s neck stand up. Before he can even register what is happening, a lightning bolt splits the heavens and strikes the little tree. The explosion throws T’Challa to the ground, though he still holds the pomegranate in his hand. When the smoke clears, the tree is nothing but two charred, smoldering halves, and Zeus himself is standing between them. 

“I warned you, child,” Zeus says, and M’Baku feels his fury reverberate throughout the earth.

T’Challa climbs to his feet, and to M’Baku’s shock, he sees that he is grinning.

“Oh, your excellency,” T’challa says, spreading his arms wide. “I pity you. Truly, I do. You have such power, such influence, and yet you do not know what it is like to love another.”

“Do not speak on what you do not understand,” Zeus snarls. A lightening bolt forms in his hand, crackling with power, but T’Challa does not even blink.

“Your wife is the queen of heaven, and yet you are unfaithful to her,” T’Challa continues. His voice never loses its pleasant, conversational tone. “You have had thousands upon thousands of lovers, but you value none of them. You will never know the joy of love, and for that I am sorry.”

“Drop the fruit, or I swear-“

“Oh by all means, make an example of me,” T’Challa says. “Let all of Olympus know that you, great god of thunder, could not bend a simple harvest god to your will.” He lifts the pomegranate to the level of his eye, and he begins to radiate golden light.

“I am T’Challa, god of spring, son of Demeter,” he pronounces, and his voice seems to shake the very earth. “I love M’Baku, lord of the dead, and I will see him again.”

T’Challa sinks his teeth into the flesh of the pomegranate just as Zeus throws his lightning bolt, and M’Baku’s world implodes in a flash of blinding light.

When he wakes, gasping and tangled in the sheets of his bed, the palace is shaking with rolling thunder, and he can almost swear that the air carries the scent of pomegranates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you didn’t actually think that I was gonna make Okoye the bad guy, did you?
> 
> Also, the next chapter will be the final entry for this story. I hope y’all have enjoyed reading my story as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Thank you for your sweet comments!


	11. Home

“So you believe this means he’s coming back?” Alecto asks, her eyes bright with hope.

M’Baku is sitting in his throne room with Alecto and Megaera, discussing his dream.

“I don’t know,” M’Baku says. “The way the dream ended... and the fact that I have heard nothing from Olympus for the past three days-“

“T’Challa really defied Zeus without actually defying him.” Megaera says, shaking her head in wonder. “He’s incredible. How he convinced Hera to help him I’ll never-“

Suddenly the doors bang open, and Tisiphone launches herself into the middle of the room, landing roughly in front of them. Her eyes are wide as platters, and she can barely catch her breath.

They all rise immediately.

“What is it, sister?” Alecto asks.

Tisiphone just looks at M’Baku, and suddenly he understands.

“Where?” he asks.

“The shore,” she says. 

The furies draw close to M’Baku, and the shadows immediately whisk them away to the lake. M’Baku follows the line of Tisiphone’s point hand towards the horizon. Alecto gasps and clutches M’Baku’s arm, but he does not feel it. 

T’Challa is walking across the water, held above its surface by a swirling pedestal of leaves and flower petals. His stride is calm and sure, as if he knows that no force on heaven or earth could prevent him from arriving at his destination.

M’Baku does not remember moving, but suddenly he is standing ankle-deep in the water, and T’Challa is standing directly in front of him. He looks the same as he did the day he first arrived in the underworld, but there is an air of power about him that is nearly tangible. This is a god that Zeus himself could not stop. 

M’Baku is almost scared to touch T’Challa. Some wild, irrational part of his brain screams that this must be a cruel apparition sent to torment him.

But then T’Challa smiles, and his eyes are so full of love and warmth that all M’Baku’s fears vanish.

“I told you I would come home, didn’t I?” he says.

M’Baku reaches out a trembling hand and touches T’Challa’s face, feels the fire burning beneath his skin. He is real and warm and so, so beautiful. T’Challa leans into the touch, closing his eyes and kissing M’Baku’s palm. A single tear slides down his cheek, and it undoes M’Baku entirely.

“I’ve missed you so,” M’Baku chokes out before pulling T’Challa to him.

Their lips meet in a crushing kiss, and the grief of the last few months dissipates when T’Challa wraps his arms around him.

“T’Challa!” Alecto screams as she crashes into him, throwing her arms around his neck. T’Challa almost loses his balance, but he laughs jubilantly and hugs her back.

“My little sister,” he says, kissing her cheek. 

Tisiphone and Megaera soon follow, and even the normally stoic Tisiphone has happy tears brimming in her eyes. As T’Challa embraces them one by one, M’Balu feels as if his heart is breaking and mending itself all at once. 

T’Challa is home, and his family is complete again.

~

As overjoyed as the furies are, they do not linger for long.

“We have all the time in the world to see him,” Megaera whispers to M’Baku, squeezing his arm before launching herself into the air with her sisters. “Enjoy each other.”

And then M’Baku and T’Challa are alone.

M’Baku gazes at T’Challa, his sun, his very own Elysium. He struggles to find the words that would adequately convey his joy, his relief, his adoration. But every time he opens his mouth to speak, his own emotions threaten to overwhelm him.

Fortunately, T’Challa speaks first.

“It’s rather late,” he says, sliding his hands over M’Baku’s hips, a promise in his smile. “I think I’d like to go to bed now.”

~

They barely make it to M’Baku’s chamber.

As soon as the door shuts, T’Challa presses M’Baku up against the wall and tears open the top part of his robes, pressing a trail of burning kisses over his chest and belly. He palms the growing swell between M’Baku’s thighs and grins wickedly when M’Baku lets out a broken moan.

“Do you know what it did to me?” T’Challa growls against the bared column of M’Baku’s throat. “All those months I spent with you just out of reach? I touched myself every night, imagining you inside of me, but it wasn’t the same.” T’Challa lets out a keening sob as he buries his face in M’Baku’s shoulder. “Nothing could ever compare to you.”

M’Baku kisses T’Challa with the same fire and depth as he did that first day in the garden. He is hard, so painfully hard, and he feels that he might die if he does not find relief inside of T’Challa’s body within the next few moments.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” M’Baku whispers fiercely.

And suddenly the light in T’Challa’s eyes is gone. He steps away from M’Baku, and his face is filled with a deep, heavy sadness. M’Baku’s blood runs cold.

“My love,” M’Baku says, his hands flying up to cradle T’Challa’s face. “What’s wrong? Have I done something to hurt you?”

T’Challa shakes his head, turning his head to plant a kiss on the inside of M’Baku’s wrist.

“You could never hurt me, dear heart,” he says. 

“Then tell me,” M’Baku says. “Please, T’Challa.”

T’Challa sighs, his eyes closing momentarily, and when he opens them, they seem to hold the weight of centuries.

“I convinced Hera to bring me something from the garden without your knowledge, so that you would not be implicated,” T’Challa says. “I had planned to simply transform the pomegranate to its underworld state, but because I used my blood to grow it, it became something else entirely.”

“I saw it in my dream,” M’Baku says, kissing his forehead. “You were amazing,”

T’Challa half-smiles.

“It was only partially a fruit of the underworld,” T’Challa says quietly. “Grown from an underworld pomegranate, yes, but planted in the earth and reborn with living ichor.”

M’Baku’s heart drops.

“You can’t mean-“

“Six months,” T’Challa says, his downcast eyes brimming with tears. “Six months per year I may live with you, and I must spend the other half in the world above.” He looks up at M’Baku. “I’m sorry my-“

M’Baku smothers T’Challa’s words with a crushing kiss and scoops him up into his arms, his hands underneath T’Challa’s thighs.

“Listen to me, T’Challa,” M’Baku says. “You are the bravest, kindest, most beautiful being I have ever known. You faced the king of the gods for me. Me!” M’Baku jostles him playfully. “Your only flaw is that you have horrendous taste in men.”

“I beg to differ,” T’Challa says, and M’Baku kisses T’Challa until he can feel him smiling against his lips.

“Six months a year, every year, for all eternity,” M’Baku says. “We are gods, my precious one. We have an eternity to make up for lost time.” He kisses the hollow of T’Challa’s throat and gazes up at him adoringly. “I thought I had lost you forever. If you could only return to me for one hour, I would consider it an undeserved blessing.”

T’Challa raises an eyebrow, a mischievous light illuminating his eyes.

“You only say that because you know all the things we can do to each other in under an hour,” T’Challa says.

With that, M’Baku crosses the remaining distance to his bed (their bed, he thinks with a piercing wave of joy) and dumps T’Challa on his back. He lunges after him, pressing his hips between T’Challa’s spread thighs and grinding their bulges together.

“Take these off,” T’Challa gasps, tugging at his own clothes with one hand and M’Baku’s with the other.

A frantic, tangled dance ensues as they try to undress without letting go of each other, but finally they are naked, and a noise like that of a wounded animal tears its way out of M’Baku’s throat at the sight of T’Challa’s member, hard and leaking against his belly. M’Baku reaches for it, but T’Challa presses him back against the mattress.

“What-“ M’Baku protests, but T’Challa silences him with a finger against his lips.

“Just lie back, my love,” T’Challa says, pressing a kiss against the curve of M’Baku’s belly as he settles between his thighs. “Let me take care of you.”

M’Baku does as he’s told, and T’Challa begins pleasuring him, wrapping his fingers around his weeping member and gently kissing the tip. A drop of precome shines on T’Challa’s lower lip when he pulls away, and M’Baku whines low in his throat.

“You’re so beautiful,” T’Challa murmurs, smoothing a hand along M’Baku’s outer thigh as he pumps his hand around M’Baku’s length. He licks the underside in one long stripe before swallowing M’Baku down, eyes closing as he begins to move his head.

The sight of T’Challa’s lips stretched obscenely around M’Baku’s girth almost sends him over the edge, but M’Baku is determined to make this last as long as possible. He settles his right hand on the base of T’Challa’s skull.

“Look at you,” he moans. “Just look at you,”

T’Challa pulls off of him, his lips swollen and glistening. He crawls up M’Baku’s body and kisses him full on the mouth as he straddles M’Baku’s waist. M’Baku tastes himself on T’Challa’s tongue, and he grabs T’Challa’s buttocks, relishing the way they fill his hands as he kneads them.

“Do you want me like this?” he asks against T’Challa’s lips.

“Yes,” T’Challa says breathlessly, gasping as M’Baku slips two of his fingers into T’Challa’s mouth.

“Get them wet,” M’Baku says.

T’Challa obliges, closes his eyes as he swirls his tongue around M’Baku’s fingers. Then M’Baku pulls them out, reaches around to T’Challa’s entrance, and slowly, ever so slowly, slides one in.

T’Challa moans and leans back against M’Baku’s hand.

“More,” he begs. “M’Baku, please.”

M’Baku slides a second finger in, crooking them both inside of him, and T’Challa throws his head back in ecstasy. M’Baku sits up and nips at the base of T’Challa’s throat, laving his tongue over his pulse. They spend a great deal of time like this, T’Challa fucking himself on M’Baku’s hand and M’Baku sucking love bruises onto T’Challa’s throat. Finally, T’Challa lifts himself off of M’Baku’s fingers and positions himself over M’Baku’s cock.

“Love of mine,” he says. “I’m ready for you.”

M’Baku lifts T’Challa’s hips and steadies him as T’Challa guides himself down onto M’Baku’s aching length. They both gasp when the tip touches T’Challa’s entrance, and T’Challa shuts his eyes in concentration as M’Baku fills him. When he finally bottoms out, and T’Challa is seated in M’Baku’s lap, he presses his forehead against M’Baku’s, their  
lips a hair’s breadth apart.

“Do you remember when we first slept together?” T’Challa asks softly.

“Of course I do,” M’Baku says, running his hands up and down T’Challa’s sides. How could he ever forget?

“I thought that was it,” T’Challa murmurs, slowly beginning to rock his hips back and forth. “I thought it was impossible for me to love you more than I did that night.” He tightens around M’Baku, and M’Baku gasps, clutching T’Challa’s waist.

“But I was wrong,” T’Challa whispers, his voice nearly broken as he begins to bounce up and down on M’Baku’s cock. “I could not have been more wrong.”

M’Baku lifts T’Challa’s hips and begins thrusting off the bed. T’Challa gasps and pounds his fists against M’Baku’s barrel-like chest, his mouth falling into a perfect O-shape as M’Baku takes him.

“Yes!” T’Challa cries, his eyes rolling back into his head as he strips his own swollen cock. “Oh, M’Baku, I’m going to-“

M’Baku opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out just as T’Challa comes. The thick white liquid spurts out onto M’Baku’s chin and lips, and M’Baku increases the speed of his thrusts, drunk off of the heat of T’Challa’s body and the scent of his seed.

T’Challa nearly folds in on himself as his orgasm ravages his body.

“I would bear your children if I could,” T’Challa almost sobs. “I’d let all of Olympus see my swollen belly, let Zeus know that it was you who did this to me.”

And that does it. M’Baku’s orgasm tears through him like a wildfire, and he pounds into T’Challa until his seed runs out of him, pouring down his own member as his soul leaves his body.

When M’Baku regains consciousnesses, T’Challa is lying on his chest, pressing soft kisses against his still-racing pulse. M’Baku brushes his hand over the back of his neck. T’Challa lifts his head, resting his chin on M’Baku’s sternum and looking deep into his eyes. 

M’Baku traces the kiss-swollen curve of T’Challa’s lips.

“T’Challa,” he whispers, like a prayer and a benediction rolled into one. “T’Challa, T’Challa, T’Challa.”

Understanding, T’Challa leans forward and presses his lips against M’Baku’s. M’Baku folds his love into his arms and closes his eyes, and the last thing he feels before sleep takes him is blinding, unrelenting joy.

~

“So that’s all it took to convince Hera?” M’Baku asks. “Telling her that our living together was a marriage worthy of her protection?”

“Essentially,” T’Challa says, looking up from the rose bush he’d been tending to. “It took time of course, but I argued that she, as the goddess of marriage, ought to understand that all marriages are nothing more than vows of fidelity, and my vow to return to you was exactly that.”

M’Baku shakes his head incredulously.

“That’s amazing,” he says. “You’re amazing.”

“Oh, don’t give me too much credit,” T’Challa says with a wink. “Hera just couldn’t miss an opportunity to spite Zeus without facing any consequences. He could not punish her because she was simply carrying out her duties as the goddess of marriage.”

M’Baku throws his head back and laughs.

“Good old Hera,” M’Baku says. “Remind me to make a sacrifice to her the next time I visit the mortal world.”

“Of course, my love,” T’Challa says, pressing a kiss to M’Baku’s cheek. M’Baku wraps his arms around him and takes in the beauty of the garden. T’Challa has restored it to its former glory, and the sight of it makes M’Baku’s heart swell.

“I wish there was a way to keep it like this during your absence,” M’Baku says wistfully.

“Don’t,” T’Challa says reproachfully. “I don’t want to think about leaving you until the moment I must depart.”

“Alright, alright,” M’Baku says. “But it might be an interesting project if you ever become bored.”

“Bored?” T’Challa asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” M’Baku says, a grin spreading across his face “I must find something to keep you preoccupied so you don’t realize I am a disagreeable curmudgeon undeserving of your affections.” 

T’Challa laughs and shakes his head.

“Let’s see,” M’Baku continues. “I know! You can help the Infernal Sisters in the Fields of Punishment. They could always use an extra hand torturing the child murderers.”

“Tempting,” T’Challa says. “But torture isn’t really my specialty. I fear I would only be getting underfoot.”

“Alright,” M’Baku says. “Then perhaps we could start attending more Olympian parties. I’m sure Zeus is dying to congratulate us on our good fortune.”

They both burst into laughter.

T’Challa finally catches his breath and shrugs helplessly at M’Baku.

“I fear boredom is inevitable then,” T’Challa says, sighing dramatically. “Spending my days and nights in the arms of my true love... however shall I manage?”

“You shall simply have to endure it then,” M’Baku says. “Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“I suppose there is one thing you could do, should you grow unbearably bored,” M’Baku says, stepping away from T’Challa and reaching into the folds of his robe.

“And what is that?” T’Challa asks.

M’Baku takes a deep breath and pulls out the gold ring. T’Challa’s mouth falls open when he sees it.”

“You could marry me,” M’Baku says, more quietly than he means to.

T’Challa’s smile lights his heart ablaze.

“Yes,” T’Challa says as cradles M’Baku’s face in his hands. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

M’Baku slides the ring onto T’Challa’s finger. T’Challa holds it up to the level of his eye and examines its beautiful design. There is a golden bud in its center, and it unfolds before their very eyes, revealing a cluster of rubies in the center of a tiny flower.

T’Challa grins. “A pomegranate blossom?”

M’Baku nods, his heart full. “I asked Alecto to make it for me the morning after you returned.”

“It’s beautiful,” T’Challa says, kissing M’Baku’s cheek. 

“It would’ve been even more beautiful had M’Baku not been so impatient,” a voice says from the branches of the pomegranate tree.

M’Baku groans. “Am I not allowed one small bit of privacy in my own realms, Alecto?”

Alecto drops out of the tree, and Argonious comes flitting down after her. She is grinning triumphantly.

“And miss an opportunity to see you fumble your way through your proposal?” she teases. “Never!”

“Fumble?” M’Baku splutters. “How dare- T’Challa, did I-“

T’Challa smiles and wiggles his hand in a non-committal gesture.

“My own bridegroom,” M’Baku says wearily. “There is no end to the treachery I face.”

Tisiphone and Megaera drop out of the tree next, clutching their sides in laughter.

“Oh this is entirely too much,” M’Baku says, his knobkerrie materializing in his hands. “T’Challa, if you aren’t too busy laughing at your poor betrothed-“

T’Challa laughs, wrapping his arms around M’Baku’s waist, and M’Baku slams his knobkerrie against the earth. The shadows cover them, but they do not immediately whisk them away. Instead they merely cover them, allowing M’Baku a bit of privacy as he kisses T’Challa’s eyelids, his nose, and finally, his lips. He can still hear the laughter of the Infernal Sisters, but he doesn’t care. 

He kisses T’Challa again.

~

There is a celebration in the human world.

M’Baku walks through the little mountain town unseen as the harvest festival unfolds around him. Tonight young men and women dance together in the streets, and all around him there is feasting and music. The people of this land come together during this time to celebrate the new lives the year has brought them and to commemorate their deceased loved ones. A perfect balance, M’Baku thinks.

It has been exactly one year since T’Challa first returned to the underworld. The past six months have been difficult for M’Baku, but the sweet knowledge that T’Challa will come home has made them bearable. M’Baku continues onward to his destination: the apple tree under which M’Baku first agreed to take T’Challa to the underworld. When he reaches it, he finds that there is no one there to meet him.

M’Baku begins to worry. This was the correct place, wasn’t it? What if something happened to T’Challa? What if he simply-

“Excuse me, good sir,” a voice calls from the branches above his head. “I’m looking for my husband. Perhaps you could help me find him?”

M’Baku looks up and grins.

“I don’t know,” he says. “What is this husband of yours like?”

T’Challa jumps down from his perch and smiles.

“Oh, he’s handsome enough, in an oafish sort of way,” T’Challa says, straightening his black and silver robes. “He’a perpetually brooding, not to mention reclusive. You might even call him a hermit. In fact-“

“Are you done?” M’Baku asks.

T’Challa laughs and throws his arms around M’Baku’s neck. M’Baku bends to kiss him, and it isn’t long before he’s smiling beneath T’Challa’s lips. T’Challa tugs at M’Baku’s robes as he deepens the kiss.

“Here?” M’Baku asks, amused but not opposed.

“Why not?” T’Challa says, sinking to the ground and pulling M’Baku with him. “No one will see.”

They lie together afterwards, sated and sweaty, watching the flickering lights of the town beneath them. M’Baku pulls T’Challa into his lap and listens as T’Challa begins to tell him news from Olympus.

“The whole mountain is in an uproar,” T’Challa says. “Hera has apparently taken a brief respite from her marriage to Zeus and left Olympus. Last I heard she’s traveling with a band of warrior women. The Night Angels, I believe they call themselves.”

“Zeus must love that,” M’Baku snorts.

“But enough about them,” T’Challa says, weaving his fingers through M’Baku’s. “How is the underworld?”

“Much the same,” M’Baku says. “Although Tisiphone has recently taken a lover. A dryad named Aneka.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” T’Challa says. “Oh! And before I forget, I have something for you.” T’Challa digs through his robes until he finds a small bag, which he then hands to M’Baku.

M’Baku tips the contents into his palm. At first it looks like five small pebbles. But then he looks closer, sees their slight purple tint.

M’Baku looks up at T’Challa in wonder. “But how- I thought Zeus destroyed the tree.”

T’Challa laughs. “As it turns out,” he says, “it takes more than a piddly lightning bolt to destroy something created out of love.”

“Do you think they’ll take root in the underworld?” M’Baku asks.

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” T’Challa says, kissing M’Baku’s cheek. “I did, after all.”

M’Baku smiles and takes T’Challa’s hand.

“Come,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

~

The end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all, folks! Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> P.S.  
> I may post a shortened version from T’Challa’s perspective later on, so stay tuned!


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